


Nothing I Want More

by Joolzmp7



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Caring John, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, M/M, Marking, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Protectiveness, Rescue Missions, Sleepy Cuddles, Temptation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 11:52:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12035331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joolzmp7/pseuds/Joolzmp7
Summary: John is suffering in the aftermath of Sherlock's fall.  When he finds a secret message it brings hope and leads to new discoveries and sends him off on a mission to rescue his lost friend.  Sherlock needs time to recover and John is happy to provide him with all that he needs - and he does mean 'all'.





	Nothing I Want More

Nothing I Want More

By Joolz

 

Three months. That was how long he had been alone. Alone and regretful. If only he’d been able to say something to stop him on that roof. If only he’d been sharper or quicker or… anything. If only Sherlock had known that he didn’t have to do this on his own. If only John had taken the time to tell him…

Stop it! The thoughts kept spiralling round and round in his head. Sherlock had obviously thought he was alone in what he was facing and that nobody believed him but that wasn’t true. John had always believed him, and believed in him. He had known that Moriarty was real – he’d felt the semtex strapped to his body, for God’s sake; heard that evil voice hissing in his ear. That was no fake actor; that was a true madman. 

He had always believed in what Sherlock could do. Since the very beginning in the lab and in the taxi on the way to that first crime scene, Sherlock had known everything about him – and he clearly hadn’t looked it up; John knew that, despite what Sherlock may have implied. He certainly wouldn’t have made the mistake of thinking Harry was his brother if he’d researched him in advance; he liked being correct too much for that kind of error.

The way Sherlock could just look at a body and know so much; much more than John, who was able to read the medical condition but nothing else. He liked to feel that he helped but it was usually just to confirm what Sherlock had already deduced. He certainly couldn’t look at the surroundings and draw the same conclusions that Sherlock could – nobody could do it like him – he was the real deal. It had been proved on too many occasions for that to be faked.

The thing John regretted most, however, was that he hadn’t told Sherlock how he felt about him and, just maybe, if he had known, if he hadn’t felt so alone, he wouldn’t have jumped and killed himself. There was nothing John could do about that now, so he just needed to ‘get over it and move on’ as everyone kept telling him. He couldn’t get over it, though, that was the problem.

The awareness had crept up on him slowly but he suspected the attraction had been there from the beginning, if only he had known what to look for. At the time, he had been fresh back from war and only interested in finding a bit of female companionship. When he thought back, though, he should have realised how little those women really held his interest from the way that he always dropped them in an instant if Sherlock needed him. For anything.

Whatever or whenever Sherlock text him, he would be there. Even for ridiculous things like passing him his phone from the inside pocket of the jacket he was actually wearing! He thought even Sherlock had seemed to regret calling him for that one after the roasting John had given him. He had been at Twickenham just as the rugby final had been nearing the end and it had been a tie as he’d left and he’d missed seeing England win by scoring a try in the very last minute. I mean who gave up something like that for a person about whom they were supposedly indifferent.

He had been friends with plenty of guys when he was in the army, even quite liked the look of a couple of them but he had never taken it further. Everyone had been in the same boat over there and people just got on with their day; taking care of solitary business in the showers when necessary.

Since he had been back, however, his feelings had changed. Where before he would merely have liked the look of someone but not done anything about it; now he liked the whole package and he wanted it all. With Sherlock it was his face, body and, most importantly, his brain. How could anyone not have found it sexy the way Sherlock could solve a crime in two minutes? Even The Woman had said brainy was the new sexy. Okay, so he could perhaps have learnt to use a bit of tact on occasion, there was no doubt about that, but still, it was amazing. He was amazing.

‘Was’. There it was again. The past tense. How John hated it. He was just miserable without his ‘partner’ and they hadn’t even been together. How he wished it had been him and not Sherlock, up on that roof. He would gladly have sacrificed himself if it meant Sherlock was still here. That the world could still be dazzled by that talent instead of offended by a has-been doctor who could barely move himself off the sofa most days. 

He never went out. He barely ate, except when Mrs Hudson put something physically in his hand and after a few moments of confusion at what it was doing there, he would eat it just to get rid of it. He wasn’t sleeping in his bed at all; he would just drop off randomly on the sofa and wake up to half the day being gone. He would look around for Sherlock, wondering if he was out on a case and had thoughtfully left him there to sleep. Then he’d see the dust on Sherlock’s chair – which he didn’t allow anyone to sit in – and he would remember and it would hit him all over again; the vicious cycle beginning its daily round once more. He couldn’t even sit in his own chair any longer either because the close-up view of Sherlock’s empty chair was just too painful.

He didn’t really get visitors any more. Greg had been round a few times not long after, but John’s lack of response to anything he said soon soured any communication and he hadn’t been over for the last few weeks. Mrs Hudson was the only person he saw on a regular basis and he didn’t really pay attention to her as she shuffled from room to room; cleaning and tidying up a bit – except ‘that’ chair, of course, never that chair.

His only other visitor was Mycroft. John still hadn’t forgiven Mycroft for what he had done in betraying his brother and would merely glare at him as he hovered by the door; seeming to not want to brave coming closer. He came over every week as if just checking in so that John knew he was still there. John had no doubt that Mycroft had other methods of keeping an eye on him on a more frequent schedule, if what Sherlock had always said about bugs was true, but John just really couldn’t be bothered to search for anything. He couldn’t really be bothered to do anything at all, if it came to that.

John heard the door go downstairs. He took no notice, though; Mrs Hudson always dealt with that. He had almost forgotten that he’d heard the doorbell - drifting back off into his own thoughts again – when there was a short knock on the door to his flat and it was pushed open. It was obviously someone who knew him because if they stayed there to wait for him to answer it, they’d be waiting all day. It was Mycroft – oh joy, his day was complete!

He glowered over at Mycroft, as was his way, but rather than just hovering by the door, Mycroft actually came into the room this time. He stood in front of the fireplace looking over at John on the sofa. He walked a bit nearer, between the two chairs, and John leant forward, ready to leap up if Mycroft made any attempt to touch Sherlock’s chair. Mycroft raised his hand in a placatory manner, however, and John sat back again, still glaring.

“Hello, John. How are you?”

“I can’t believe you came here merely to exchange pleasantries, Mycroft. Just say what you need to and get out.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but refrained from commenting on John’s lack of observation of the niceties of polite society.

“Indeed. Sherlock’s effects have now been released to me as next of kin so I thought I would bring his coat back to put with the rest of his belongings.”

John had flinched when Sherlock’s name was mentioned. He never said it out loud himself and certainly didn’t want Mycroft to do so – he didn’t deserve to say his name. Mycroft took in his reaction but carried on.

“The offer still stands if you want me to clear out his room; I could dispose of everything and give you a bit more space?”

“No! You don’t touch his things.” John shouted and jumped up. He snatched the coat out of Mycroft’s hands and stepped back. “You can leave now.”

Mycroft stayed still for a few seconds, watching John with narrowed eyes; clearly reading far more into John’s reaction than he wanted to reveal. Mycroft obviously decided not to force the issue because he gave a small nod, turned, and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

John stood in place for a moment, his teeth gritted and his one fist clenching as he worked through his anger and tried not to think about the fact that he was holding Sherlock’s coat in his other hand. When he could ignore it no longer, his glance slipped down briefly to look at the thick, dark material before snapping back up and staring straight ahead. His friend’s coat – a coat he would never wear again. He’d never flip that collar up, looking so cool and pretending not to notice what he was doing. He breathed through his nose a few times then sucked in his breath and cleared his throat.

He looked down properly at the coat and brushed his hand along the collar, circling the red stitching on the button hole. The coat was as unique as its owner. He raised it to his nose and inside the lining it still smelt of Sherlock. John inhaled deeply, his eyes shutting tightly as he thought of his lost friend. He collapsed back down on to the sofa, his legs suddenly too weak to hold him up. He clutched the coat close to his body; holding it over himself as he lay back against the arm of the sofa, silent tears slipping down his cheeks.

~*~

He was having the most marvellous dream. It was a warm summer day and he and Sherlock were lying in the grass in Regent’s Park deducing all the people as they strolled past. Sherlock had his head resting on John’s chest and John was stroking his fingers through Sherlock’s dark curls. He buried his nose in Sherlock’s hair as he just enjoyed listening to those dulcet tones, whatever they happened to be saying.

He slowly came back to himself to realise that none of it was real. He was warm, it was true, and he could smell Sherlock, but it wasn’t the incomparable man himself; it was merely the coat, within which, he had been cocooned as he’d fallen asleep on the sofa. The disappointment hit him all over again and he hugged the coat to him, not wanting to lose the tiny piece of Sherlock he had left.

He heard a crackle of paper and reached round to pull out whatever he was lying on. He couldn’t find anything so he stood up to see what he had crushed. There was nothing there. He looked around to see if it had fallen on the floor but still nothing. He sat back down again, still gripping tightly to the coat and he heard it again. It sounded like it was coming from the coat but surely anything in Sherlock’s pockets would have been confiscated or given to Mycroft.

John felt around in the pockets but these, too, were empty; even the secret pocket in which Sherlock kept a little knife, which he had once used very successfully to assist their escape from a kidnapping. He wondered whether Sherlock had another secret in his coat that had not been previously discovered. He lay it down in front of him on the floor and felt over the entirety of the lining, listening carefully and looking out for any open threads.

He finally found it within the inner lining of the left cuff. There was a smooth fold of material which looked natural from a distance but when John tugged it gently a tiny strip of Velcro pulled apart. Inside was a folded piece of paper which, when John opened it, revealed a page of their secret code in Sherlock’s own handwriting. John screwed his eyes tightly shut to stop anything leaking out – honestly what was the matter with him today?

He had a letter from Sherlock. It was for him alone and no-one else had seen it. Not even Mycroft had found it. He treasured it already and he didn’t even know what it said yet.

He placed Sherlock’s coat gently on the sofa next to him and got out his notepad. He started using all their previous code words to see which one would decipher the message. Sometimes he would get a random word appearing in the text but each time it would not make sense out of the rest of the message so he would have to start again.

What on earth could it be? He had tried every word that he had ever used but nothing was working. He tried using random words, things related to their cases or hobbies, even names of people they knew but not one made any sense, until in desperation he tried his own middle name and there it was.

He translated the whole body of text, trying not to read it as he went so that he could get the entire context of the message when it was completed. When he was done he read it through. He went back to the beginning and read it again and then for a third time. His hand dropped into his lap as his eyes stared blankly at the paper, not seeing it any longer; his eyes focused inwardly as he thought about what he had just received.

That couldn’t be right, could it? He must have mistranslated it. He went back again and looked at what he had written and the code word that he had used and made sure he had transposed the letters correctly. It was all there. He hadn’t made a mistake. He read the letter through once more.

John,  
If you are reading this then I am gone. My interpretation of the forthcoming events was correct and I have had to do this to save you. Please know that leaving you in this manner was not something I would have wished but I willingly make this sacrifice for you. Moriarty must be stopped and, as he stated at the pool, he had no hesitation to use my feelings for you against me. I had several options in place to out-manoeuvre his strategy depending on his precise plans, but I hope their execution was not too traumatic to witness. Please take care of yourself, John - it is important that you are well when my plans all come successfully to fruition.  
Always yours   
Sherlock

What did it mean? Feelings? Sherlock said ‘my feelings for you’ – did that mean what he thought it meant? Of course not, he must mean his feelings as a friend; it couldn’t be anything more than that. Could it? Don’t be silly, John; nothing but wishful thinking. You are projecting your own wishes on to the message. ‘Always yours’ though? That surely couldn’t mean anything else, could it? Too bad that ‘always’ hadn’t seemed to mean the same length of time to Sherlock as it would have to him.

What difference would it make to Sherlock if John was well when his plans came to fruition? Surely whatever plan he had enacted had already finished and how did he expect John to be fine after what he’d had to face? Seeing all that blood; his friend’s lifeless body splayed on the pavement – that wasn’t something he could just shrug off. He saw it every night in his nightmares. He supposed at least he wasn’t re-living the war ones any more but these ones were so much worse. He always woke up shouting Sherlock’s name; reaching out to stop him from jumping and feeling like such a failure when the image burned onto his waking visage was that of his friend – dead, once more.

‘Gone’? That was an unusual word to use. Why would Sherlock say gone and not dead? He was always very precise with his diction. Did he not believe in death in those terms, maybe some kind of after life? No, don’t be ridiculous! They saw enough of it every day in their jobs for John to know Sherlock’s opinions. A dead body was a dead body.

It was most puzzling and John really didn’t know what to do with this overwhelming influx of new information. He couldn’t seem to assign the possibility of real feelings on to his vision of Sherlock. Much as he felt these things himself and wished he had told his friend, it felt too weird to think Sherlock had already had those thoughts and been the first to state them. It was too much to take in. John’s head was buzzing and he sat back on the sofa, letting everything wash over him as he tried to assimilate what he had just discovered.

He wasn’t really aware of anything around him until Mrs Hudson yoo-hoo’d her way into the living room in the late afternoon. She came bearing a tray with a pot of tea and some of his favourite home-made scones, obviously trying to entice John to eat something. As she walked to the coffee table in front of him, he snatched up the letter and the translation, not wanting her to put things down on his precious letter; or to even see it at this stage – it was his. It was his last link to Sherlock; something he had written himself and meant only for John as it was in the secret code that only the two of them shared.

He remembered when they had made up the code. Sherlock had thought it slightly ridiculous but John had pointed out that they might need a way to communicate messages which would not be intercepted by other people. Their system had worked successfully with coded phrases as John had reminded Sherlock about using ‘Vatican Cameos’ when they had been confronted by the CIA in the case with The Woman. He had finally acceded to John’s wishes and they constructed their coded language. Though Sherlock had tried to pretend he found it juvenile, John knew he’d actually enjoyed doing it and they often left messages about mundane matters like buying milk just to practice. 

Over the next few days John found himself eating a little more of what Mrs Hudson put in front of him, and he even put the kettle on himself once to make a cup of tea. Of course, he completely ruined it by making two cups and it was only when he was putting in the sugar for Sherlock’s tea that he realised what he’d done. He quickly poured both drinks down the drain and dropped the cups in the sink, not wanting to even acknowledge what he had done. He went back to the sofa and sat down, his thirst disappearing with his despair; though he did press his hand against his shirt pocket feeling the secure location of the letter that had never left his side since its discovery.

It seemed that he had taken Sherlock’s words to heart, even though he didn’t really know why he should have bothered as Sherlock wasn’t here to see him. Still, the fact that Sherlock had told him to take care of himself seemed to have made him take a little more interest in what was going on and he finally decided that sleeping away his days on the sofa was a practise that shouldn’t really continue on a permanent basis.

He put on his coat and shoes and ventured outside for the first time in weeks. True, he only went as far as the corner shop to buy some milk, bread and biscuits, but it was a good first step and he felt pleased that he had made the effort for Sherlock. No, not for Sherlock; for himself – Sherlock wasn’t here to care what he did, was he? When he got back and put the biscuits in the cupboard he realised that he had bought Chocolate Hobnobs. He blinked slowly. He liked Chocolate Hobnobs; he liked them just fine. It didn’t mean anything that he had bought the biscuits that were somebody else’s favourites. Oh hell, who was he kidding? Even though Sherlock wasn’t here, the man still consumed John’s thoughts and actions. Of course he bought Sherlock’s favourites – didn’t he always get what food he thought most likely to tempt him to actually eat something?

John felt tired all of a sudden and decided to just go to bed; he wasn’t hungry now anyway. He didn’t want to go up to his own room because he wanted to still surround himself with Sherlock as he usually did in the living room, so he decided he would use Sherlock’s bedroom instead. It wasn’t as if the man could complain about it; not that he would probably be bothered anyway. He had offered John his bed on the odd occasion before when they had arrived home knackered and John didn’t think he could make it up one more step. John had never actually taken him up on that offer but decided that now was the perfect time.

He voluntarily had a shower and changed into his pyjamas; something he had not done recently without constant cajoling from Mrs Hudson. He climbed into Sherlock’s bed, enjoying the feel of the Egyptian cotton sheets against his skin. One of the pillows still had a slight indent from Sherlock’s head so John took the other side, not wanting to disturb a last trace of his friend. He could smell Sherlock all around him which was lovely; it was even better than when he had slept in the coat. What on earth was he doing? He was treasuring traces of a dead man, for God’s sake. He was pathetic; but even knowing that, he couldn’t seem to help himself.

~*~

He woke up disorientated. The light coming in through the window didn’t reveal his bedroom or even the living room which he was more used to seeing recently. It took him a moment to remember that he was in Sherlock’s room, but what had woken him. He didn’t think it was another nightmare because his heart wasn’t racing and he wasn’t sweaty as he usually was on those occasions. Then he heard it again. It sounded like the noise a phone made when it vibrated with a text. Surely it couldn’t be Sherlock’s phone though; Mycroft must still have that as it hadn’t been returned to John. It wasn’t John’s own phone. He didn’t know the last time he’d seen it, but it certainly wouldn’t be in Sherlock’s room as this was the first time he’d been in here since... well, just since.

He got out of bed and went to where he thought the noise had originated. It had sounded like it came from the wardrobe. He swung open the door and gasped for a moment as he was confronted with those elegant suits and shirts that Sherlock always wore. How John missed seeing them – missed seeing him. He stroked his hand down the purple shirt, it had always been his favourite and Sherlock had seemed to know; always wearing it when they went out for an evening. Meals that were not dates but how he wished they had been. Had Sherlock thought the same? Was that what he’d meant by some of the things he’d said in his letter? Had he worn that shirt on purpose because he knew how much it turned John on? Stop torturing yourself, idiot! Whatever he may or may not have thought, it’s all immaterial now.

John left the shirts and moved to the two shelves underneath. Here was evidence of Sherlock’s sock index at work, though John found it hard to tell the difference in shade from one pair of black socks to another. At least he wouldn’t get in trouble if he disturbed it this time, he thought, as he moved the socks aside to see if there was anything hidden in the drawer. His finger touched something hard. There, right at the back, was a small phone. John pulled it out to examine it. It was just a cheap old Nokia, maybe a burner phone; nothing like as sophisticated as Sherlock’s normal model. He turned the screen on and, luckily for him, it started up first time without a password. 

3 Unread Text Messages.

Oh, no! It must be someone who didn’t know Sherlock was … He stopped there, he didn’t even like to think that word. He wondered why they were texting Sherlock on this old phone and not his own. Well, it wouldn’t hurt now; he might as well see from whom they originated. Maybe he could at least pass on the message to them about what had happened.

Message sent: May 14, 10:40 pm.  
Ur not answering ur other phone so trying this 1. Found what u wanted. He was v hard to locate. Billy.

Message sent: May 15, 05:25 am.  
Do u want this address or not? I’ll be in my usual place for the next few days unless I get moved on again. Billy.

Message sent: May 15, 05:30 am.  
Hope this isn’t u sulking. Sorry it took me a whole week to find it but like I said he was pretty deep underground. B.

What! That couldn’t be right? ‘A whole week’? The fact that Sherlock had previously been looking for information on someone was nothing new. He used to do that all the time and had a whole host of people with whom he communicated. Billy was most likely Billy Wiggins, one of the best of Sherlock’s homeless network. John had dealt with him himself on occasion when Sherlock had sent him out to collect information. It certainly had to be someone who knew him well to ask if he was sulking. However, the pertinent part of that last text said ‘sorry it took me a whole week to find it’. How could anyone have been asked to find something out a week ago? Sherlock had been gone for months. Too many months as far as John was concerned, but certainly far too long ago for that text to make sense.

What should he do now? Should he text back – would Billy know what was going on or answer him even? Or should he go to Billy’s ‘usual place’ and see if he was there? He knew where that was and could probably get more information with direct questioning. Plus, he would be able to observe Billy’s reactions and see exactly what he meant. He obviously wasn’t as good as Sherlock, but he had picked up hints on visual observations under his tutelage and hoped he would be able to get to the bottom of this mystery.

For the first time in months, John felt energised. Regardless of the fact that it was so early in the morning, he didn’t feel the least bit tired. Probably had had enough sleep to last him weeks recently and he wanted to know what was going on right now so he quickly got dressed and headed out in search of Billy.

Billy’s favourite haunt was on the South Bank down towards Waterloo Station. He always said they were a more relaxed, avant-garde clientèle over there than the business people and politicians on the other side of the river. John took a cab to the station and, after wandering around the vicinity for a bit, he spotted Billy under one of the arches and went over.

“Hi, Billy, how are you?”

“Hey, Doc. Long time no see. What are you doing over this end of town? I thought he said you weren’t getting involved in this one.”

“He? Which he do you mean?”

“Well, him, of course. Who else do you think I’d be talking about?”

“Are you talking about Sherlock?”

“’Course.”

“Um, Billy, you do know that Sherlock is no longer… here?”

“I know, that’s why I’ve been trying to get hold of him.”

“No, I mean, he’s no longer around, he… he died.”

“Yeah, but not really, did he? I mean that was just for the goons, like he said, wasn’t it?”

“What?”

“Well, like he said, he had to jump to save you, didn’t he? They had to see him dead so you’d be safe or they’d be after you again.”

“Billy. I’m sorry; I’m being a bit thick here.” John licked his lip and gave that little half smile that would have told anyone who knew that he was anything but happy. “Could you just run through the whole plan for me so I can make sure we’re on the same page?”

“Sherlock said that the psycho on the roof told him that unless he killed himself then you, the copper and your landlady would all be shot. Sherlock suspected he was gonna do something like that so he worked out a few options to get himself out of it. He had to make it look real though so that the snipers would stand down and you’d all be safe.”

“So… Sherlock’s… alive?”

“’Course. What did you think was going on?”

“I thought that Sherlock was dead, that’s what I thought. How was I supposed to think anything else – he jumped off a bloody roof!” John shouted, banging his clenched fists against his sides.

“Hey, it’s alright, Doc.”

“It’s not alright. No, it’s not. If it was alright then Sherlock would be here and I wouldn’t have been mourning him for months for no bloody reason.”

“Ok, calm down, mate.”

“Calm down! How am I supposed to calm down? My best friend has only been lying to me and I’ve been walking round like a zombie for weeks having nightmares whilst he’s swanning around having fun without me.”

“He hasn’t been having fun. He was pretty fucking miserable the one time I saw him.”

“You’ve actually seen him, then?”

“Um, well, yeah, just the once, not long after he did it.”

“When was this?”

“It was just after the funeral.”

“He was at his funeral? Well, of course, he bloody was – bet he loved that, didn’t he; everyone there just for him; seeing me making a complete arse of myself.”

“I think that’s why he was so miserable, to tell you the truth. He saw you there and said it was very important that you were safe whilst he couldn’t be here to protect you himself. He asked me to get the crew to keep an eye out for you because he said he didn’t know what he’d do if anything happened to you. He was muttering about needing to make a miracle or something.”

“He said that?” Some of the all-encompassing fury left John at that point. Sherlock had heard him asking for one more miracle and was trying to do something about it. He was being bloody stupid about it by not letting John help him, of course; but if what Billy had said was right and Mrs Hudson, Greg and he had all been in danger, then it was exactly the sort of thing that Sherlock would have done. He knew that most people believed Sherlock incapable of such depth of emotion, but he wasn’t one of them. He’d seen the way Sherlock had protected Mrs Hudson when the CIA had come calling. Sacrificing himself for them was just something he would have felt necessary. But why couldn’t he have at least let John know that he was alive? One text, that’s all he would have needed; anything just to let him know he hadn’t caused the death of his best friend. “You’ve been watching out for me?”

“Well, you haven’t exactly made it difficult for us. You’ve hardly left the house but we have been taking shifts and keeping an eye on the place just in case you did.”

“So do you know what he’s doing exactly?”

“He’s been tracking down the snipers that were set on you three and taking down Moriarty’s network.”

“On his own?”

“I think so. He did say something about having access to the Almighty when necessary but he’s basically out there alone.”

“He can’t be expected to do all that on his own. What did he ask you to look for?”

“He was after the last one of the snipers. He said he’d already shut down two of them. I don’t know how, he didn’t tell me anything about that. He just asked me to find an address on this other guy. He wanted me to watch this casino and then I was supposed to follow the bloke home and find out where he lived. He was pretty hard to track though; it was almost as if he knew he was being followed. I lost him twice when I tried so I got some of the others to help me and, third time lucky, we saw him going in to a house. We watched it for a couple of days to make sure it wasn’t just a one-off but he’s definitely living there. I text Sherlock to give him the information but he hasn’t answered back yet.”

“I know about the texts to this phone but when did you send the text to his other phone?”

“I’ve tried him for the last three days on that other one but didn’t hear anything back so that’s when I tried the number he’d given me for emergencies. So, do you think he’s in trouble then?”

“Well, he usually answers his texts almost before I’ve finished sending them so it certainly isn’t like him. Did he say anything about where he was when he asked for this information?”

“No, he didn’t say anything to me? He only told me to text him back when I found what he wanted; that was it.”

“Okay, Billy. I think you’d better give me the address and I’ll see if I can sort it or get a hold of him myself. I’ll give you my number too and if you hear anything from him, will you let me know?”

“Yeah, will do, Doc. Are you sure you want to do this, though, he made it seem like you weren’t supposed to be involved?”

“Yes, well, Sherlock and I will be having a serious conversation about what I should and shouldn’t be informed of when he gets back. Thanks for your help, Billy.”

“Do you want some back-up with whatever you’re planning? There’s a few of us who’d be only too happy to help. Sherlock, and you, have looked out for us enough times.”

“I’ll get back to you on that. Keep in touch, Billy.”

“Sure thing, Doc. See you soon.”

John walked off; his head spinning with the news that Sherlock was actually alive. He thought about it all for a moment. Now that he knew what was going on, he needed to find a way to get to Sherlock to help him in whatever he was doing. He wouldn’t let his friend do this alone. John was the one with all the army training; the one who was a crack shot. It should be him out there, not Sherlock. That had always been his role; Sherlock was the brains and he was the brawn. Well, he considered himself a little higher than brawn but certainly he was the one who was prepared to do the dirty jobs; to get things done. 

He realised exactly where he’d be going for his next port of call. There was only one person that would have the kind of power to make him ‘Almighty’ and John knew Sherlock didn’t mean God.

~*~

John had worked up quite a head of steam again by the time he got to Mycroft’s office. The man had been coming to his house every week without fail and had seen what state he was in, yet he’d said nothing. Now John wanted answers and Mycroft better not think he could still get away with this silence.

Even though it was still very early, the building was quite well staffed. They knew him at the front desk so he wasn’t stopped as he marched straight up to Mycroft’s floor and smiled at Anthea as he walked towards her desk. When she lifted her head from her phone he nodded to her then turned quickly aside and made for Mycroft’s door. She jumped up to stop him but he pushed open the door just as she got to it and barged his way right in. Mycroft looked up to see what the disturbance was, but shook his head at Anthea as she raised her eyebrow to query if he wanted security called.

“It’s fine, Anthea. That will be all, thank you.”

Anthea nodded and left, closing the door firmly behind her.

“Good morning, John. What an unexpected pleasure. You’re up early this morning.”

“Cut the bullshit, Mycroft. You know exactly why I’m here.”

“I’m afraid you have me at rather a disadvantage.”

“You’ve never been at a disadvantage in your life. Was it all some big joke? See how long we can string out the stupid doctor and make him weep?”

“John, I don’t …”

John cut in before he could get any further. “He’s alive, Mycroft. I know he’s alive. Now, tell me where the hell he is so I can go and help him before he gets hurt.”

Mycroft stared at John, assessing his mood and knowing that denial was no longer an option. He had agreed with Sherlock’s initial assessment that no-one should know what he had done to keep them all safe, but Mycroft had visited John every week and he had seen what Sherlock’s loss had done to him. Mycroft could keep secrets from Queens and Prime Minsters but he found himself wanting to be honest with this humble little man. People may call him the Iceman but Mycroft loved his little brother and wanted only the best for him and this man in front of him made Sherlock happy – a task he’d often thought impossible. There certainly weren’t any other people for whom Sherlock would have sacrificed so much. Even Mrs Hudson and Lestrade couldn’t have inspired this much devotion and Mycroft wondered if even Sherlock himself, quite knew the depth of his feelings for his flatmate.

Mycroft heaved a sigh and pointed to the chair in front of his desk.

“Have a seat, John.”

John could see the resignation in Mycroft’s face so he sat down and Mycroft pressed the buzzer through to Anthea. He didn’t have to ask for anything, she knew what he wanted, and had it ready, just waiting for his signal. She swiftly brought in the tea service and put it on the desk in front of him. He nodded his thanks and began preparing two cups, making John’s exactly how he had it, without even asking, and passed it over. He pushed the plate of biscuits towards John, too.

“You might as well help yourself. I know you rushed out too quickly to have stopped for anything to eat before you left this morning.”

John was feeling a bit hungry now without breakfast so he helped himself.

“As lovely as this is, I came here for answers not to pass the time of day.”

“I am well aware, John, and the answer is no.”

Anger crossed John’s face and he leaned forward ready to slam his drink down on the desk. Before he actually got out of his chair though, Mycroft held up his hand. John paused for a moment, waiting to see what Mycroft said next before he decided whether to punch him or just storm out.

“The answer is no, this wasn’t all a big joke on you.”

John sat back down and raised his eyebrows, indicating Mycroft should continue.

“It was, unfortunately, necessary that Sherlock be seen to die and for your grief and mourning to be observed as genuine.”

John clenched his jaw, his eyes tightening as he glared at Mycroft.

“I’m glad my pain could be put to such good use. I hope you both enjoyed it.”

“Of course, we didn’t derive pleasure from your suffering, John. We needed the assassins to be called off and that would only happen if they believed Sherlock to be dead. Moriarty had set up a dead man’s switch – no pun intended – and only that would stop them. Your grief had to be real so that they would believe it and leave you alone.”

“Well, okay, I could see that them knowing Sherlock’s fall was real was necessary, but it’s been over four months now, why have you left me in the dark this long? You’ve been there every week, Mycroft, you’ve seen in what state I’ve been. Surely you could have said something?”

“I wish I could, John, believe me. It was important that we got the three snipers out of the way before we could make a move. Mrs Hudson’s was easy – it was the handyman doing repairs in the flat and he packed up and left when he got the all-clear. It was easy for me to pick him up after he left. DI Lestrade’s took a little longer. Sherlock worked his way through the personnel records of the entire department and found out that one of the recent transferees had got himself into a heap of trouble and been blackmailed into helping Moriarty or have his indiscretions revealed. I soon had him transferred out again and dealt with so the Inspector is safe.”

“Well, I’m glad they’re both safe now, at least. What about me? I can handle myself; I don’t need all this mollycoddling. You’ve seen my service record, I assume, considering the way you knew everything else about me when we first met. You know exactly what I’ve been trained for; what I’m capable of. It should be me out there dealing with this, not Sherlock.”

“I am, indeed, aware of your capabilities, John; your skills have never been in question.”

“Then why am I still being side-lined? Sherlock shouldn’t be out there on his own. I can help him; I should have been helping him already.”

“I agree. If it was solely up to me then I would have recruited your assistance in this matter from the beginning. I’m afraid the operation is not under my control and sentiment has been allowed to enter the equation.”

“If you’re talking about Sherlock then you know he doesn’t do sentiment either.”

“I think we both know that’s not true, don’t we, John? It seems that since you have entered his acquaintance, it is something that has reared its ugly head.”

“It’s not a dirty word, you know, Mycroft. 99% of the population find it satisfying.”

“Yes, and what do they know about anything; they who use their brains so infrequently and think so little.”

John actually laughed at that as Mycroft looked so resigned and disappointed.

“Oh, come off it, it’s not that bad. So… has Sherlock said something?”

“Fishing, Dr Watson?”

“Well, I…”

“Sherlock was not prepared to allow any risks with regard to yourself and refused to reveal himself until he had removed the sniper targeting you. It has proved a difficult task as he has not been able to do the searching in person, of course, as he is unable to reveal himself. It seems that Moriarty sent his very best after you; his second in command – you should feel honoured.”

“Oh yeah, a real bloody honour.”

“It seems that even Moriarty was aware of your value to my brother.”

John snorted. “I wish.”

“You shouldn’t doubt it, John. Though it may have taken him longer to realise he possessed them, my brother is not entirely without emotions; as he has been discovering to his detriment.”

“Caring is not a disadvantage, Mycroft.”

“Regardless,” Mycroft waved his hand, as if brushing such triviality aside. “Sherlock has been tracking this last assassin and had a strong lead when last he communicated. He, himself, is in Budapest at the moment, infiltrating one of Moriarty’s operations over there and has been deep under cover for a week now and unable to communicate. He is due to check in tomorrow morning.”

“What do you know about this operation – is it dangerous? I’ve been speaking to Billy, one of Sherlock’s homeless network, and he said he’s been trying to contact Sherlock for four days now with information he was asked to track down and he’s had no reply. Do you think Sherlock is just incommunicado as you suggested or could something have happened?”

Mycroft’s brow creased. He knew that Sherlock had said that he couldn’t take any identifying papers or phone or anything in with him but surely he had been going back to his room at night and if he had received a message about John’s assassin he would have taken action immediately, regardless of what else he was doing. At a minimum he would have replied to this Billy or passed that information on to be dealt with by Mycroft. He would have wanted John free as soon as possible. Mycroft had been passing on comments regarding John’s state to Sherlock and he had been able to tell exactly how hard it had hit Sherlock to be deceiving his friend in this manner. He wouldn’t have prolonged the situation for any reason.

All this flashed across Mycroft’s face in a millisecond and only someone so familiar with a Holmes would have noticed the hint of concern before Mycroft cleared his face. John was just such a person and he knew what this must mean.

“You need to let me in on this, Mycroft. I can help him, you know I can.”

“I will put out some feelers regarding the situation with Sherlock immediately but I don’t want to just send you charging in and mess up his operation unnecessarily if he is merely undercover; you know how he would take that. Let me handle this one for now, John, until we have a better understanding of what is happening. If you wish to be of assistance, perhaps we can follow up on this information that you have received from Sherlock’s associate. Do I assume you have an address where we might locate Moran, if it is he?”

“Moran? Colonel Sebastian Moran? Is that whom it is? Billy didn’t actually give me a name just an address. I know him; I met him in Afghanistan. Seemed pleasant on first acquaintance; taught me to hone my skills with the sniper rifle, but he has absolutely no conscience. Got drummed out of the service for picking off a group of Afghani’s just for target practise. Seems just the sort to chum up with Moriarty.”

“Indeed, that is he. Sherlock deduced the details of their connection and worked out at which casino he liked to hang out, which is where, I assume, he sent this Billy.”

“He always was a bit of a demon at poker. Cleared me out a few times before I caught on to his tell; now we’re probably about evenly matched. Maybe I could happen upon this casino and play a hand or two. He never could resist a challenge. Might be the perfect way to get to him.”

“Sherlock would never allow you to put yourself in such risk.”

“Yes, well, Sherlock isn’t here right now and the sooner I can get to him the better, as far as I can see. Do you think Moran will be at this club tonight?”

“I would say it’s more than likely given his love of the game.”

“Good. Let’s get something sorted then.”

“If you are going to do this, John, then at least let me get you kitted out properly. You will need full back up if we are going to take Moran down.”

“By all means, let’s do this.”

Mycroft made a quick phone call to get everything set up then John followed him down to the basement level to a surveillance centre and armoury.

“This is just like James Bond.” John grinned at Mycroft’s raised eyebrow until Mycroft smiled smugly back at him.

“Where do you think they got the idea?”

“What, really?”

Mycroft tilted his head and tapped his nose once.

John was fitted with an ear piece for two-way communication and after having his measurements taken, he was provided with a smart suit with a camera in the top button of the jacket. He was also given a firearm and a knife which he slipped into an ankle holster. He didn’t use the shoulder holster for the gun, finding that it looked too obvious under his jacket so he tucked it into the back of his trousers as was his usual way when he went out with Sherlock.

John looked at himself in the mirror – well, not quite as good as a James Bond tuxedo, but certainly not far off. He was very pleased with the result and happily followed Mycroft in to the next room to meet the team with whom he would be working that night. They spent the day getting everything set up and giving John a run through of all the codes they would be using and how the operation would be run. It was all fairly standard, and nothing John hadn’t done before.

They agreed that it would be best if John was there first and already comfortably in place when Moran arrived as that would look less suspicious than having him suddenly turn up and happen to spot Moran. The manager of the casino had been contacted and had agreed that a couple of Mycroft’s team could be interposed in with his staff for the evening and that they could use his own surveillance room as a base from where to access all the casino cameras. They would also have agents outside each exit in case a pursuit was necessary. Mycroft gave John a considerable amount of money with which to obtain his chips and sent him on his way with a final warning.

“Well, best of luck, John. I can’t emphasise enough how important it is that you return safe and sound from this mission. I don’t relish facing my brother if I have to inform him otherwise.”

“Relax, Mycroft. It’s nothing I haven’t done before and you have enough people covering my back so it’ll be fine.”

“I hope so, I really do. I will be monitoring the situation carefully as well as liaising with the people I’ve sent in to Budapest so hopefully we should have more information all round by the time you return.”

“Thanks for that, Mycroft. I’ll see you later.”

~*~

John was soon set up at a poker table with a large pile of chips which he only succeeded in increasing as the evening progressed. He had been there about an hour when he got word through his earpiece that Moran had been spotted approaching the casino. John had sat himself so that he was side-on to the entrance. He never liked to have his back to the door but he didn’t want to be tempted to look for Moran; he wanted the man to spot him and make the approach.

“Well, I’ll be! If it isn’t Captain John Watson.”

John looked round and felt himself automatically straightening his posture at the military greeting.

“Colonel Sebastian Moran. What on earth are you doing here? I haven’t seen you since we were on our last tour.”

“I’ve been keeping myself busy. How about yourself?”

“Well, things haven’t been so great lately but I’m trying to pull myself round. Everyone keeps telling me to move on so I thought I’d try my hand at something I used to enjoy.”

“Seems like you’re doing pretty well if that pile of chips is anything to go by. Would you like a little extra competition?”

“I’d like that, yes. In fact, I’d relish the chance to try and recoup some of my losses from the last time you walked all over me.”

“Well, we’ll see about that, shall we?”

Moran dumped a wad of cash on the table and the croupier gave him a pile of chips. He took a spare chair which had conveniently opened up across from John and they settled in to play.

They were pretty evenly matched to begin but John had slowly started to edge ahead and had just taken a large pot. Moran was starting to get frustrated and was getting a bit rash and betting larger and larger sums of money. John was matching him, determined to keep this going for a while longer. He knew Moran’s moods whilst he was playing cards and had decided that the best way to get him to talk was to get him good and riled up first and then let him have a victory and think he had got one over on John. He had also told Mycroft that Moran’s tongue got looser the more he drank, so they were keeping the table well supplied with alcohol; watering down John’s drinks and tripling the alcoholic contents of Moran’s.

As the evening went on, John kept winning and the pile in front of Moran was slowly shrinking. Finally John noted that he was flicking the edge of one of his chips with his middle fingernail which was his tell when he had a really good hand and wasn’t just bluffing. This was his chance. When it came time to swap cards he exchanged one of the four aces he obviously would usually have kept and made sure that his hand was low enough to make sure he’d lose. He kept bluffing along, raising the stakes until Moran was all in. When John pushed all his chips in to the middle as well, Moran raised his eyebrows. 

“I don’t have any more cash on me but I’ll see you with this.” At that, he threw a set of Jaguar car keys on the table.

“I thought we always played table stakes?”

“Oh come on, Watson, where’re your balls? Too scared to up the ante?”

“That could be a piece of shit on wheels for all I know.”

“I think you know me better than to think I’d be driving anything less than the best. Those fit the top of the range, latest model Jaguar E-type in the car park and you can go and check if you don’t believe me.”

John looked at his face; he didn’t want to push him too far. “No, I’ll believe you. Go on then let’s see what you’ve got.”

“Read ‘em and weep, Johnny boy. A straight flush.”

Moran laid his cards out slowly on the table: seven, eight, nine, ten and Jack of hearts. John schooled his face to show real disappointment.

“Damn! I thought you were bluffing. All I have is three Aces.”

Moran scooped all his winnings towards himself with a big grin on his face.

“Tough luck. That’s what it’s like to be taken down by a master.”

John bit his tongue to avoid snapping back. There was nothing he hated more than a bad winner and he knew Moran would be gloating for ages on the back of a win like that.

“Well, you’ve wiped me out for the evening, so I guess I’ll have to call it quits.”

“Hey, at least stay for another drink with me. You’ve got to let me celebrate my victory.”

“Okay, one drink, and then I’ll really have to go.”

They moved over to a table near the bar. John noted that the man who came to take their order was one of Mycroft’s team and another was seated at the table behind him. 

“So, got a busy social life to get back to then?”

“Hardly. This is the first time I’ve been out properly since…”

“Since what?”

Even though John now knew that Sherlock was alive, he still found it hard to talk about. The emotions he had been going through had been very real and were still so fresh in his mind.

“Um, well, my best friend… um, died recently. It’s taking me a while to get used to his loss.”

“Oh, I think I might have seen something about that. Some detective guy, right?”

“You heard about that?”

“Your picture was in all the papers, even I couldn’t miss that.”

“I suppose so.”

“Still, it could have been worse.”

“How could it possibly have been worse? My best friend died!”

“Well, you could have died, too.”

“What do you mean?” John heard Mycroft’s voice in his ear. *Tread carefully, John, you’ve almost got him.*

“Well, I probably shouldn’t tell you this but I had you in my sights for a while.”

“What are you talking about? Are you trying to come on to me? Because if so, I have to say I’m flattered but not interested, thanks.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I meant in my gun sights.”

“What? Why on earth would you be targeting me? What have I ever done to you?”

“To me – nothing. It was purely business, you know how it is. My previous employer wasn’t very happy with your friend and if he didn’t do what he was told then I was supposed to take you out.”

“I… I don’t really know how to respond to that.”

“You should consider yourself lucky, is what you should do. You’ve seen me in action, Watson; you know for sure that I wouldn’t have missed.”

“So this previous employer of yours made Sherlock do something?”

“Yeah, he had this whole thing arranged even down to a false identity he’d created. He set up your friend with some bullshit claims about crimes he hadn’t committed and then told the guy if he didn’t jump off a roof then three of his chums would bite the bullet and you were my target.”

“Well, I think that’s quite sufficient for a confession, don’t you, Dr Watson?”

John looked up at Mycroft who had approached from behind Moran and smiled triumphantly at him.

“Even that ridiculous Chief Super who came to arrest us can’t deny the truth of that. Now at least Sherlock’s name can be cleared – even though it will be posthumously.”

“Indeed. I will get on that right away. I’m sure Sherlock would have liked to know that he had been vindicated in the end.”

“What’s going on, what’ve you done to me?”

“Nothing, Mr Moran. We merely provided you with your libations for the evening; the confession was all your own work. Now if you would just like to accompany these gentlemen, they will see to your future accommodation.”

Two of Mycroft’s team led Moran out, shouting and complaining all the way.

“Well, that went a lot easier than I expected. I thought I was really going to have to work at it to get him to talk.”

“I must make my own confession that his last drink also contained a little something the team in the basement has been working on which may have loosened his tongue a little more than usual. You merely needed to provide him with the right opening and he followed through perfectly. Well done, John.”

“Good. So, that’s all the snipers taken care of then.”

“Yes, I’m sure certain people will be very relieved to hear that news. Now, shall we return to my office and look into this other matter that still requires our attention.”

“Yes, please. The sooner we get that sorted the better.”

“Quite.”

John followed Mycroft out to his car and they headed back to his office. He hoped that Mycroft’s team might have found out some useful information in their absence.

~*~

Mycroft’s people had, indeed, been very busy – he would have expected nothing less. They had a man in place who worked in the embassy in the old town and he had been sent round to Sherlock’s most recent address from where he had last made contact. Unfortunately, when he’d got there the partially furnished flat had been trashed. Sherlock didn’t have many personal possessions with him as he travelled with only one rucksack so it was easier to move around, but what he did have were scattered across the room. The mattress and chairs had all been ripped open and everything else was overturned, cupboards emptied and the contents strewn across the floor. Somebody had obviously been looking for something.

John and Mycroft listened to the update, faces growing grimmer by the minute.

“You need to get me in there, Mycroft. He must have been captured and they’ve been searching his room to see if they can find out about him.”

“So it would seem. I am loath to put you into an unknown situation though. Sherlock would be most unhappy if I placed you in danger.”

“Bugger that, Mycroft! His safety is clearly more at risk than my own in these circumstances and you know I can handle myself.”

“It would seem that I have little choice in the matter. We need intel as quickly as possible and I think you are perfectly suited to be able to provide insight into Sherlock’s movements prior to his suspected capture and help to secure a possible location.”

“Right, good. You know it makes sense.”

“Hmm, we shall see. It will be a purely monitoring mission. I don’t want you running off regardless; I have quite enough to put up with Sherlock doing that on a regular basis. Plus, my team will be going there with you so you can all work together.”

“Of course. You know I only go off when I’m following him as protection. Goodness knows what he’d get up to on his own. Well, point in case, in fact.”

“Exactly. I know that, and don’t think I don’t appreciate everything you do for him, John. He’s been far better with you around; you’re a very steadying influence; however, I know what lengths you will go to for each other. Even more so now, I can see.”

John blushed. “How long have you known?”

“Longer than you have yourself, I suspect.”

“Does Sherlock know?”

“In some matters, my brother can be as blind as he always proscribes to others. However, you should consider that he wouldn’t have taken the steps he has for anyone else, so whether he considers his aspirations reciprocated or not, his own actions are very revealing.”

John gave a small smile. “I guess so.”

“Before we get sickeningly mired in sap and nonsense, shall we proceed with our plans?”

John grinned at Mycroft’s distaste but nodded his head and they sat down with the team to plan out their campaign.

~*~

John and the team flew out to Budapest in the early hours of the morning and got as much sleep on the plane as they could so they could hit the ground running. Mycroft had secured them entry into a building in the square where Moriarty’s headquarters were based and where Sherlock had been temporarily working. 

When they landed, half the team went to their base of operations to get everything set up and to start monitoring the building, and John and the remainder of the team went to Sherlock’s accommodation to see if they could find any clues.

The place truly had been trashed. It seemed the enemy had been most determined to obtain any information upon which they could lay their hands. John looked round at all the places which had been examined and those which had not. He tried to put himself into Sherlock’s head. He would surely have anticipated possible intrusion so he wouldn’t have left anything valuable in the rucksack in his room. Where would he put it?

John had often struggled to think of new hiding places to check when Mycroft had previously given warnings of danger nights in Baker Street so he knew Sherlock was very inventive. He walked around the corners of the room, checking if he could feel the bounce of any possibly loose floorboards. There was a general creakiness to the floor but nothing which could be pried apart. The light fittings had been inverted and hung at a crooked angle. He looked at the vent which had also been left open and appeared empty. Was it though? John remembered a case they had had when the space behind a vent had been used but the item hadn’t just been shoved into the gap it has been taped against the back of the wall as high as could be reached so that it would be missed at a casual glance. It was worth a shot certainly.

John knelt down to the ground and reached around inside the hole. He turned his arm around inside to feel up but, of course, his arm was much shorter than Sherlock’s and the aperture wasn’t big enough to fit his head to have a look. He looked around the room and through the open door into the bathroom and luckily the mirror against the wall had obviously been yanked off and smashed on the floor. He ran across and grabbed a piece of mirror and was straight back to the vent. He angled it in to see and struck pay dirt; something was attached to the wall inside. He called over one of the taller members of Mycroft’s team and got him to reach up for the package. After a struggle to stretch his arm up far enough – Sherlock did have abnormally long arms – the man managed to pull it out. It was a waterproof bag and he gave it to John who quickly opened it up.

Inside there were two passports with different names; a few rolls of money, some the more common pounds and euros, some others more exotic currencies which John didn’t recognise immediately; and a bundle of papers. When John opened the papers he found a map and detailed notes on Moriarty’s organisation including the comings and goings of the people in the building in which he was currently working. He had obviously kept them all under surveillance and had been tailing several of the employees back to their homes to see in what other activities they were involved. 

The last entry said that Sherlock had found one of the bosses with a possible side-line down in a warehouse on the east bank of the river on the outskirts of town and had planned to go there that night to investigate further. Unfortunately, he hadn’t specified which warehouse it was. John opened the map to see if that would provide another clue. On the east bank there were several buildings at the edge of the town which could be possible locations. Sherlock had crossed off three which he had obviously already checked which left them with five to investigate.

They discussed options and decided to just leave one person to keep a watch on the office building and the rest of that team would rendezvous with John’s group and they could divide the search of the warehouses between them. The teams split in two to get the work done faster and John’s team went over to the first warehouse to investigate.

~*~

There were no lights visible and the grass around the entrances had grown up quite high and didn’t look to have been touched recently. They skirted round to the back and one of the team widened a hole which had already been cut in the wire fence for them to get through. It didn’t take long for them to establish that the place really was empty. One of the doors at the back was hanging off its hinges and it was clear that anything stored in there had long since been removed; either by the owners or other erstwhile visitors. 

They moved on to the fourth in the line as the other team had already cleared the second one and moved on to the third. As John waited for one of the men to again cut their way in he looked over to the fifth warehouse. This one was slightly further out on its own and once again surrounded by high weeds. John tensed as he thought he saw a flash of light from one of the low windows, probably the basement. The team leader standing next to him had felt the movement and looked at him questioningly.

“John, what is it?”

“I thought I saw something.”

“Someone moving?”

“It looked like a light there at the bottom left. Can we look there first?”

He didn’t know why but he felt himself drawn to that building more than this one which appeared as quiet and empty as the first one had been. The team leader radioed through to the other group and told them to check over the fourth building when they were finished where they were and they moved on to the final building.

John’s senses were on high alert. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end and it was almost as if he could feel the presence of Sherlock. He had no way of knowing how or why he just instinctively knew they were going to find something here.

The team crept over to the last building, keeping low to the ground as there was quite a bit more area to cover to reach the perimeter fence. They were going to cut the fence from the rear again but as they circled around the compound John pointed to some tire tracks sunk into the mud near the main gate. They looked fresh and the team moved even more carefully, not wanting to alert anyone to their movements now they had this renewed hope that their search might be drawing to a close.

Once they were inside the fence, they scouted round to find an entry point. They came at the building at the farthest point from where John thought he had seen the light and luckily found a window on the other side which they were able to use glass cutters and suction clamps to remove from its frame. They all climbed into the building and found themselves in what looked like an abandoned office. The desk, chair and a couple of cabinets were still there but all the drawers hung open and empty. 

John moved over to the door and edged it open. He peeked out both ways down the corridor but there was no-one in sight so he gestured to the team that they would split up and head in both directions. John and his partner went to the left and used a standard overlap and cover manoeuvre as they made their way down the passageway. All the doors were either locked or gaping open showing an empty room so they carried on until they reached the end which led into the main storage part of the warehouse.

This was also all in darkness but across by the entrance near the main doors they could see a van parked so it seemed they were correct to assume someone was in residence. They looked around for a way to get into the basement as that was where John thought he had seen a light and John’s team mate pointed over to a door in the far wall. John nodded and they headed across. They had a tense moment as they sensed movement as they approached the door, but luckily it was only the other members of their team so they all joined up again to head down the stairs.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around it was clear that this area was inhabited. There was a light under the door to their right and also another at the end of the corridor. It sounded like the noise from a TV behind this first door so they pushed a tiny camera under the door to scan the room. There was a TV switched on in the corner and a sofa and chair in front of it. One man was lying on the sofa, seemingly asleep, so they crept in and one of the team leaned over and covered the man’s mouth so he couldn’t make a noise whilst another injected him with a compound which would keep him out of action for a couple of hours before tying him up so he couldn’t interfere, no matter how long they took.

They moved down to the other end of the passage and as they got nearer they could hear some dull thuds. Then John heard the most wonderful sound in the world; a sound he had thought lost to him forever. He heard the deep, dulcet tones of Sherlock’s voice. It was strained and he was gasping and pausing between words as if he couldn’t catch his breath but he was there and he was clearly alive.

They stopped outside and used the camera again to get the lay of the land. There were three men inside: one sitting with his feet up on a desk in the corner; one leaning up against the wall, rubbing his reddened knuckles; and another who was standing in front of a severely battered man with straggly, greasy, dark hair who was hitched up by chains to a hook in the ceiling.

The men seemed to be engrossed in what they were doing and there were no weapons in sight as they obviously did not fear any reprisals from the tethered victim. Sherlock’s eyes were closed – swollen shut most likely judging by the state of him - so they decided to throw in a stun grenade to minimise the retaliation from the men. Then they would all charge in at once, each of the team taking one man out and John heading straight for Sherlock.

When they were all ready, they edged open the door and rolled in the grenade. The man standing by the wall caught the movement but by the time he opened his mouth to warn his colleagues, it went off and they all fell to the floor, shaking their heads and covering their ears. John’s team burst in and the takedown manoeuvre followed their exact plan; the three men being knocked out and tied up as soon as they got in the room.

John ran over to Sherlock and bent down to look into his face. He gently cupped Sherlock’s chin and tried to get his attention but he, too, had been caught in the blast of the stun grenade.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me? It’s John. I’ve come to save you.”

Sherlock tried to shake his head but he clearly didn’t have any strength left. He latched on to the word ‘John’ though and John leaned closer to hear him mumbling under his breath.

“Save John… must save John… won’t say ‘nythin’.”

“You did save me, Sherlock. You were so brave. I’m here to help you now, okay? I’m going to lift your arms down but I’m afraid it’s really going to hurt – as if you weren’t suffering enough already.”

John took the key to the chains which the team leader gave him and they carefully undid the clasps. Sherlock slumped down against John’s chest and cried out as his arms were lowered to his sides; blood flowing through muscles that had been kept aloft for far too long, sending pain and pins and needles prickling throughout Sherlock’s body.

John sat on the floor, carefully pulling Sherlock into his arms and stroking his head. He could barely see Sherlock’s usually beautiful features. His face was swollen and bloody; his eyes almost shut; his lip split; nose bulbous and possibly broken; and cuts above one eye and across his cheek bone. He looked down Sherlock’s body and could diagnose three broken fingers, maybe a couple of broken ribs and a deep cut down his right leg, running from hip bone to knee. The trousers had been ripped and John could see it as a zigzag line on which the torturer had clearly taken their time and tried to inflict as much pain as possible; jerking the knife through the skin meaning it would be hard to repair and sure to leave a deep scar. It had clearly bled profusely, though it must have been done at least a day ago by the look of the congealed bloody mess which had dried down his leg.

He leaned his face down closer so that Sherlock would be able to hear him.

“Sherlock, can you hear me now? You’re safe; I have you.”

“Not safe… can’t tell John yet…one more.”

“We got him, Sherlock. We got Moran. We’re all safe now. You did it; you saved me.”

“Got Moran?”

“Yes, we got him. Your intel panned out and we stopped him. Turned out I knew him; met him in Afghanistan.”

“John safe?”

“Yes, I’m safe. I’m here. Can’t you recognise my voice?”

“Heard it so often… in my head… can’t tell what’s real.”

“This is real, Sherlock. I’m here and you did it, you saved me and Greg and Mrs Hudson. Do you want me to get Mycroft on the phone to reassure you?”

Sherlock snorted then winced as it hurt his nose. He peered up at John through the tiniest space in his eyelids.

“Now I know it must be real… I’d never tell myself… that Mycroft is reassuring.”

John laughed, “Oh, it’s so good to hear that snarky tone again. I even missed that along with everything else. I… I missed you, Sherlock. Things haven’t been good.”

“I know. I saw. I’m… I’m sorry, John. I had to keep you safe.”

“I understand why you had to do it but that doesn’t make it any easier for me to think about what I went through. I… well; I was just kind of lost without you.”

Sherlock managed to get one arm to move, now the pins and needles had stopped, and he reached up to touch John’s cheek, as if reassuring himself that John was really there.

“Me, too.”

John smiled down at Sherlock and ran his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair, being careful not to snag them in the tangled ends. He looked up as the Team Leader came to stand in front of him and gestured to two men behind him with a stretcher.

“The ambulance is here, John.”

“Oh right. Come on then. Be very careful how you lift him.”

The paramedics moved in and gently lifted Sherlock out of John’s arms. Even with the care they took, Sherlock still cried out in pain and John was beside him in an instant asking the crew what pain meds they had so he could ease Sherlock’s journey to the hospital. When they had settled Sherlock in the rig John climbed in too, not willing to let his friend out of his sight. Mycroft had obviously cleared the way for him because the paramedics said nothing; neither did the staff at the hospital when Sherlock was whipped straight in to one of the emergency rooms.

John told them what he had diagnosed and they set to work to sort Sherlock out. He had a CT scan to see if there was any internal bleeding but luckily it came back clear and x-rays showed that the nose wasn’t actually broken, though two ribs were cracked. Again, luck was with Sherlock, as the ribs hadn’t pierced through into his lung so they were just strapped up for now whilst they worked on prepping him for surgery.

Mycroft had called in a top-flight orthopaedic specialist who was going to work on his fingers as he knew Sherlock would make everyone’s life hell if he didn’t have full mobility. Whilst that was being done, a plastic surgeon was going to sew up his leg wound. John knew Sherlock wouldn’t be bothered by scars, but he appreciated the effort to which Mycroft had gone in getting the very best.

John had to leave Sherlock when he went into surgery but he was given permission to sit up in the gallery so he could keep a close eye on the proceedings. He still felt on edge whenever Sherlock wasn’t in plain view. Having him back was still too new to miss and he appreciated the concessions Mycroft had arranged for him.

~*~

The surgery was long and complex but John was impressed with the skill of both surgeons and knew that Sherlock was in good hands and should hopefully make a full recovery on both counts. When they were done they moved him to a private assessment room to keep an eye on him through the night.

John was allowed in once they had him settled and he kept a close check on the monitors, knowing exactly what to look out for and anticipating the exchange of medication and blood bags so that when the nurses came in they found everything already done for them. They also had Sherlock on a nutrient solution. Even though he had only been held hostage for a few days, he clearly hadn’t been taking proper care of himself before that either and John was determined to get him back in as healthy a condition as soon as possible.

Sherlock was out all night; the exhaustion and blood loss exacerbating the usual recovery time required by a surgical procedure. By mid-morning, when John came back from a very quick trip to the toilet, he noticed some twitching in the fingers of Sherlock’s uninjured hand. The other hand was wired up to a frame to hold it in position whilst he slept so he didn’t disturb the healing process. John took hold of the moving fingers, on to which he had been clinging most of the night, and squeezed them lightly. 

“Sherlock. Sherlock, can you hear me?”

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered and he slowly seemed to be waking up. Eventually he squinted through the one eye he could half open and saw John hovering over him.

“John,” he croaked.

John got him a cup of water and helped him to take a few sips to clear his throat. He plumped his pillows a bit and propped him up slightly, making sure not to move his hand.

“Not a dream then?”

John sat down and smiled at him.

“No, it’s still me.”

“Good.”

“You can’t believe how good it is to see you, even in this state. I never thought I would get the chance again and now I find myself loath to leave your side in case it turns out that I’m the one who is dreaming and you’re not really here.”

John felt a squeeze to his fingers which he had subconsciously slipped back into Sherlock’s grip whilst he’d been talking.

“I find myself in complete agreement with that statement.”

John shook his head slightly and rubbed his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand.

“Well, you did at least have the luxury of knowing I was alive. I didn’t even have that.”

“I’m sorry I had to do that, John. There really was no other way out of the situation in which I found myself.”

“I know; Mycroft explained it to me – eventually. It would have been nicer if he had done so before I spent months grieving over you though.”

“It really was necessary, unfortunately. I had to keep you safe, John, and for that my death had to be convincing and I’m afraid the burden for that fell upon you.” He paused for a moment and his eyes dropped to the bed sheets before rising back up to look at John from under his lashes. “It was important to me that I had something for which to come back.”

John blushed. He knew how he felt about Sherlock; his feelings having become known to him through his grief, but he still hadn’t been sure about Sherlock’s own emotions – even after what Mycroft had said. The look Sherlock had just given him was almost shy in its uncertainty, though, and John felt a burst of confidence sweep through him. He knew Sherlock was inexperienced in dealing with emotions and that this would be another burden which would fall on him, but this was one he would be happy to bear.

John lifted the hand held in his own and raised it to his lips before gently pressing a kiss on to the knuckles. He put it down again and traced the skin with his thumb and smiled as he looked back up at Sherlock.

“It’s important to me that you came back at all and I would be more than happy if you never went away again.”

Sherlock’s cheeks reddened and his eyelids fell closed as his own thumb slid across the back of John’s hand.

“Me, too.”

~*~

Sherlock stayed in the hospital for four more days. He really had been exhausted and severely under-nourished and he spent a lot of the time asleep, gaining back his strength. Whenever he awoke he always found John by his side, even when the doctor had fallen asleep himself, he would do so with his head on Sherlock’s bed. John’s hand would be holding his own or resting on Sherlock’s leg, needing to keep the connection between them even in repose. Sherlock knew exactly how he felt. He would put his hand on John’s head, his fingers slipping through the sandy hair, reassuring himself that John was there; was safe; that it was finally all over.

They didn’t head straight home when they were discharged. Mycroft had been in touch – several times, much to Sherlock’s chagrin – and had suggested they make use of the family estate in France to give Sherlock time to recuperate. Loath as he was to take anything from his brother, Sherlock had seemed to perk up when he had heard this. He explained to John that he had spent many happy summers there with his Grandmother when he was growing up and even Mycroft had been fun in those days and had played with him and helped him with the experiments with which he had been obsessed even at such a young age.

John was looking forward to it. He thought it would be great to see where Sherlock had grown up and he was more than happy to allow Sherlock some extra time to recover before they threw themselves back into their London existence. It would also allow Mycroft to use the time to bring Sherlock back from the dead. He had already provided the evidence to Scotland Yard to prove Sherlock’s innocence in all matters to do with Moriarty and Richard Brook, and it was now a question of restoring all the other documentation needed to allow Sherlock to function on a day to day basis.

~*~

They arrived in the late afternoon after being driven in a very comfortable limousine with a long seat upon which Sherlock could rest his leg to stop him ripping his stitches with constant bending. John didn’t hold out hopes that he would be able to keep Sherlock still for long but he would certainly make the most of any opportunity which presented itself.

The villa was reached by travelling down a winding drive through the property’s own little wood with a babbling brook running alongside. Sherlock informed John that it joined up with another stream which traversed the other side of the property further down its course and then emptied out into the sea which was a mile and a half walk away with their own private beach. John was delighted with the prospect of exploring and spending time on the beach, and was determined to get Sherlock to stay long enough for him to be well enough to make that happen.

The first few days John insisted they stay near the house to give time for all his bruises and stitches to heal and Sherlock had little enough energy that he allowed that to happen. After that they walked a little further each day, allowing Sherlock to build up his strength and stamina and by the end of the week they had planned an outing down to the beach with a picnic packed for them by the housekeeper Mycroft had employed to look after them during their stay.

They followed the course of the stream and soon found themselves gravitating towards each other as they had been doing all week. Sherlock reached out to hold John’s hand, tentatively at first, until he saw the broad answering grin on John’s face, then more boldly, squeezing the fingers in his own. John nudged him with his shoulder and grinned as he held on tight to stop Sherlock stumbling in surprise.

They had been getting more comfortable with each other since the first night they had arrived. Sherlock had shown John up to the bedroom he had called his own whenever he had stayed at the villa. It still had the detritus of several experiments with which Sherlock had been involved at the time. He was delighted to see that some of these would still provide him some vital data of decay rates over a substantial period of time and he studied them in more detail as the week progressed.

John had insisted that Sherlock go up to bed after they had eaten upon their arrival on that first night and Sherlock had been drained enough that he hadn’t quibbled – too hard, at least. His sticking point had come when John had been moving over a chair in which he had planned to spend the night in order to keep an eye on Sherlock.

“John, you have not slept properly for five days. I think another night in a chair will do your shoulder permanent damage.”

“I know I should go to bed but I don’t feel comfortable leaving you on your own on the first night out from the hospital.”

“Nor do I intend to let you; your presence is a great reassurance to me – both to the state of my own well-being and, more importantly, to yours.”

John blushed. It was true that he still felt reluctant to let Sherlock out of his sight and it seemed Sherlock felt exactly the same. There had been more and more of these types of comments between them and it was clear that John was not alone in his new-found feelings. He wanted to take things slow though to allow them both to process what was happening and to allow Sherlock time to recover, as John’s medical side was still on high alert and determined to see his friend back to full health in all things.

“What do you propose then? I suppose I could see if Mme Lapion has a camp bed we could set up in the corner instead of using a chair.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John, surely even you have noticed that I am lying in a king sized, four poster bed. We have shared a bed before – when we were in Dorset to name just one occasion – and we have been sharing a room for the last few days in the hospital. I am in no way averse to sharing my night time accommodation with you as happily as I do my days.”

John’s eyes dropped and his cheeks reddened further before he looked up at Sherlock through his eyelashes.

“Are… are you sure? I wouldn’t want to impose or make you uncomfortable.”

“Do you imagine for one minute that I would allow something with which I am not comfortable? You know me, John; you know that I know my own mind. Now, stop messing about and get ready for bed and get in here.”

John finished his ablutions and returned to the bedroom in his pyjamas. He climbed into the bed, keeping right over to the opposite side away from Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t bite, John.” Then he grinned wickedly before adding, “Well, not unless you ask me nicely anyway.”

“Sherlock!” John burst out laughing. “You shouldn’t offer something which you are unprepared to provide.”

“Who says I would not be prepared to provide that which I have offered?” Sherlock winked at him.

John blushed and suspicions of Sherlock’s sexual awareness were raised from ‘non-existent’ to ‘comfortable with flirtation and innuendo’. He had never heard Sherlock say such a thing before and would have to find out if this was a previously undiscovered side of the man or something relating only to himself.

He moved over so that he was lying comfortably on his back though he still made sure to allow plenty of room for Sherlock. The bed was reasonably soft and very spacious and it felt nice to be able to stretch out properly after several nights of sleeping in a chair. He cleared his throat to warn Sherlock that the nightmares from which he had thought himself cured had returned after he thought Sherlock dead but Sherlock beat him to it.

“If you are about to give me some banal warning about your nightmares, John, then you should know that I am already aware that they have returned in my absence, and I can only apologise that I was the cause of such discomfort.”

“Oh, well, yes, that’s…, um, thank you.”

“You know I have never been bothered by them and I have managed to draw you out of them in the past successfully, including two nights ago at the hospital which was the last one I witnessed.”

“Two nights ago? I didn’t even wake up from that, are you sure it was a nightmare?”

“It was certainly the start of one but I spoke calmly to you and stroked your head and you settled back into regular sleep quite quickly with no adverse effects.”

“You make me sound like a dog.”

“Well, if the shoe fits.”

John cuffed his shoulder, “Idiot!”

They grinned at each other and settled down into the bed. John turned off the light as they had the curtains open, letting in the light of the large moon and it wasn’t long before Sherlock’s exhaustion took over and he was fast asleep. John turned on his side. He couldn’t help staring at the man beside him. How was it possible that his miracle wish had been answered and Sherlock had come back into his life? What was more, it seemed like he had missed John as much as he had been missed himself. 

He thought of Sherlock being able to calm him out of a nightmare before it had even properly started and was pleased that he wasn’t bothered by them. He had woken a couple of times with Sherlock’s hand in his hair and had been comforted each time; waking with a happy smile on his face and the feel of Sherlock’s leg under his own hand. It reassured him to be in close contact with Sherlock and he was glad that Sherlock seemed to feel just as comforted. 

John finally allowed himself to close his eyes but his fingers stretched out across the bed and rested themselves in Sherlock’s own, feeling an almost subconscious tightening before letting them just lay there; a part of each other once more.

Sherlock was awake first the next morning; the sun highlighting the view through his window reminded him instantly of where he was. The next sensation of a delicious feeling of warmth all down his back reminded him with whom he had spent the night and a sweet smile curved his lips. He pressed back slightly into the warm body and was pleased when he felt a huff against his neck and a squeezing of the arm around his waist, to stop any escape. He had no intention of leaving and relaxed back into John’s arms, enjoying the feeling of belonging before he dropped back into a light doze.

John woke next as he felt a tickling of hair against his nose. When he realised that the source of that hair was cradled within his arms he tried to quickly pull back before Sherlock awoke and thought he had taken liberties. His arm was gripped tightly by the hand resting on it, though, so he stopped and listened to the low murmur.

“’M comfy.”

John was loath to do anything to jolt Sherlock by trying to remove his arm and if Sherlock wasn’t bothered by it then John decided he didn’t need to be either, so he settled himself down to enjoy the sensation. When his enjoyment became a little too much, he eased his lower half away from Sherlock; not wanting to bring that particular issue upon either of them until they were ready for it. He kept his arm snuggly around Sherlock, though, and they enjoyed another lazy half hour of leisurely waking before John’s bladder insisted he needed to get up.

Whilst he was up he also had a shower and relieved his earlier tension before going to see about a cup of tea and some breakfast with which to start their day.

By the time they got to the day of their picnic they had had several nights together in that big bed. Regardless of how far apart they started their evening, they always awoke snuggled together; usually John around Sherlock, but sometimes the other way round, and they had both been enjoying the closeness it had provided.

~*~

When they arrived down on the beach John set up a blanket and parasol which they got from the small beach hut set back against the rock face. When it was ready, he insisted that Sherlock lie down for a rest after such a long walk. He was getting stronger every day but John didn’t want to cause a relapse after he had been recovering so well so he was very insistent. After a bit of grumbling Sherlock settled down and did actually have a little nap which proved John’s assumptions correct much to Sherlock’s chagrin when he woke up again.

He insisted he needed to show John the entrance to the caves in which he had loved to play in his younger days so they strolled along the edge of the sea, the waves rolling over their bare feet and tickling their toes. John could see how keen Sherlock was to go exploring once more and he promised they would come back later in their stay when they could both enjoy it to the full and Sherlock reluctantly agreed. 

They wandered back to their blanket and John got out their picnic lunch and made sure Sherlock ate enough of it to keep them both happy. John repositioned the parasol to keep them out of the direct sun and they leaned back to relax a while before they attempted the return journey.

After a while, John could see that Sherlock seemed fidgety so he asked him if there was a problem.

“Is something wrong, Sherlock? Have you strained something with all that walking?”

“Hmm, what? No, no, I’m fine. Feel fit as a fiddle. Well maybe not a fiddle; I never understood that stupid phrase. Why would a fiddle be fit?”

John laughed. “Well, you’ve got me there. I don’t know the reasoning behind it either. If you’re feeling okay then why are you fidgeting?”

“John, could I ask you something?”

“Of course, anything: you know that.”

“Well, am I doing something wrong?”

“What? Of course not; why would you think that? What could you be doing wrong?”

“Do you not find me pleasing?”

John choked for a moment, not knowing where Sherlock was going with this.

“You know I do. I think you’re one of the most handsome men I’ve ever met.”

“That’s what I thought I was reading from you, but we’ve been sharing a bed for almost a week and you haven’t made a single move towards me.”

“What do you mean? We’ve woken up every morning in each other’s arms.”

“Yes, but then as soon as we’re both properly awake you pull away and leave me there so I must be doing something wrong.”

“You aren’t doing anything wrong, believe me. Do you really not know why I pull away from you?” 

Sherlock shook his head gently, looking downcast. John knew he couldn’t leave Sherlock in that state and knew he would finally have to make the confession he had been hoping to put off as long as possible. He was sure of his own feelings but was not completely certain of the depth of Sherlock’s and he had wanted to wait as long as possible in case it made things awkward between them. Seeing Sherlock looking so unsure of himself meant there was no way John couldn’t answer him, though. He had to man up and tell Sherlock how he felt and just hope that Mycroft had been right about Sherlock’s own feelings.

“The reason I pull away from you in a morning is because I want to be with you so much that lying with you like that gives me a raging erection and I have to go and have a shower to get rid of it before I’m fit to be seen.”

Sherlock looked shocked for a moment. He had had his suspicions regarding the depth of John’s feelings but to have it so blatantly confirmed surprised him. As the comment registered more deeply upon him, the side of his lip quirked up and Sherlock smiled shyly.

“So you pull away because you like me too much not because you don’t like me enough?”

“Exactly! It’s been the hardest thing in the world to get out of that bed each morning and not roll you over and ravage you. I’ve only been waiting for you to heal enough before I could test the waters and finally properly kiss those gorgeous lips.”

“You think my lips are gorgeous?”

“Are you kidding me? You know they’re down-right edible. When I’ve felt them pressing against my neck in a morning, it’s all I can do to stop a full bodied moan of delight which I thought was likely to scare you to death.”

“I’m not scared now, John; and my lips have healed very nicely if you wanted to test that out.”

“Seriously? Can I?”

“Yes, you can. The grammatical question you ought to ask is ‘may I?’”

John swatted Sherlock on the arm and laughed. “May I?”

“You may.”

John shuffled closer to Sherlock and looked into his eyes. He could see no doubt or uncertainty with regard to what they were about to do and it gave him the confidence to proceed. He leant forward and gently pressed his lips against Sherlock’s, keeping his eyes open and watching to make sure he didn’t hurt him by accident. When he pulled back, Sherlock licked his lips, smiled and pointed back at them again, wanting more. John angled his head over to give a better position and tried it again, pressing lots of small kisses to Sherlock’s lips before trying a couple of longer, deeper ones.

He trailed his tongue over Sherlock’s lower lip and sucked it into his mouth, biting down gently on the soft skin and pulling it slightly to watch Sherlock’s reaction. Sherlock’s eyebrows rose and he smiled as John let go, before trying the same move himself. John did it again and this time when he had Sherlock’s mouth open, he slipped his tongue inside and touched it against Sherlock’s own. Sherlock gasped, then licked his tongue round the inside of his lips, tasting where John had touched him.

John smiled and Sherlock instantly wanted to try it for himself and get more of that taste. He kissed from the corner of John’s lips into the centre. When John opened his lips, he slid his tongue inside and proceeded to map the contours of John’s mouth, tasting every part he could reach; storing the information in his mind palace for future perusal and categorisation.

John allowed it for a while, knowing how thorough Sherlock liked to be, and then he wanted to taste for himself, so he followed Sherlock’s tongue back into his own mouth. Sherlock found he liked that just as much and sucked on the tip of John’s tongue, wanting to keep it there and see if the taste differed in his own mouth. They eventually pulled apart to properly catch their breaths.

“John, why did you never tell me it was like this? I never knew what I was missing.”

John grinned, “How could I tell you if I didn’t know you were missing it?”

“We have much time to make up. I propose we go back to the villa immediately and experiment properly.”

“Oh, Sherlock, how I’ve missed you.” John laughed and shook his head fondly. “You always wanted everything five minutes ago. It’s nice to see nothing has changed.”

“Of course not. Why wait when you can do it now?”

“In certain circumstances I might agree with you, and I definitely won’t argue with you about wanting to take things further because that’s a given. You are, however, still recovering from major, life-threatening injuries so, in this instance, I’m going to insist that we take things slowly until you are at full strength.” Sherlock groaned as John continued. “I would never forgive myself if we put back your recovery because I couldn’t rein in my desires.”

“Desires - I like the sound of that. Life-threatening, however, sounds a little melodramatic.”

“It would have been true if we hadn’t got to you when we did. You would have bled out if you’d been left there any longer, or if they’d inflicted any other injuries upon you. Let’s just be thankful for what we have and not push our luck, shall we?”

“But, John… I need more.”

“You can have more - believe me, I want that more than anything – but we’ll do it a bit at a time.”

“You are a spoilsport, Dr Watson.”

“I am, indeed, a doctor, Mr Holmes, and I’m afraid you will have to put up with my concern.”

“Merely concern?” Sherlock queried, shyly.

“Much more than concern and you know it.”

John smiled at him and leant in for another kiss. Sherlock captured his lips and they spent the next few minutes locked together.

“You are far too good at that for a beginner and much too distracting.”

Sherlock grinned at him, “I’ve always been a fast learner.”

“Don’t I know it,” John smiled back. “How about you put your much vaunted skills towards healing as fast as you can as well then and we can see where this leads.”

“Now that is what I call motivation.” Sherlock winked at him and they both burst out laughing.

“Come on, you; let’s clear this up and head back. You really could use a rest after all this exertion.”

“What exertion – you wouldn’t let me?”

“I’ve unleashed a monster!”

“You shouldn’t be so tempting. Now I see what attracted people from many continents.”

They both grinned.

“It was only three continents, thank you very much, and only one person each from two of those. You make it sound like I’ve slept my way around the world.” John paused for a moment, assessing the slightly uncertain look which flashed across Sherlock’s face. “There really weren’t that many, you know. Does it bother you that I’ve slept with a few people?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Does it bother you that I haven’t?”

John reached over and took Sherlock’s hand, leaning close to look into his eyes. “It doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I feel honoured that out of anyone you could have had, at any time, you’ve chosen me.”

“It would never have been anyone else, John. It’s only ever been you.”

John kissed him then, soft and gentle; caressing Sherlock’s lips with his own before he placed a little kiss on his nose.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it, but thank you. I feel the same way. If your absence was good for nothing else, it showed me just how deep my feelings were for you. I felt like I’d lost half of myself with you gone.”

“I’m sorry, John.”

“No, you don’t need to apologise again. I didn’t say it to make you feel guilty. I just meant it made me realise… I realised that… I love you, Sherlock.”

“Being away from you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Seeing those pictures of you that Mycroft sent – you just looked so sad that I wanted to come straight back to you, but I couldn’t put your life at risk. It showed me just how much you meant to me. It isn’t something I’ve ever felt before, but I realised it, too… I love you, John.”

John was happier than he thought he had ever been. He knew how hard it was for Sherlock to talk about feelings but he had done it for John. He took him into his arms and kissed him deeply, revelling in having this man back in his life and having so much more to look forward to as they went through it together. They only stopped when Sherlock let out a little cry of pain and John realised he had pressed too hard on Sherlock’s damaged ribs. He sprang back.

“Sorry, sorry. Back to the taking-things-slowly plan.”

“I’m fine.”

“Regardless; your doctor has spoken.”

“’My’ doctor?”

“Only your doctor, if you want me.”

“I think you already know the answer to that, John.”

“Good. That’s settled then. Now, we really are heading back this time. Come on, let me pull you to your feet and you can get your balance whilst I just put this away.”

John cleared everything away and took hold of the basket with one hand and Sherlock with the other and they slowly made their way back to the villa. Mme Lapion had left them a light meal which they ate before going to sit out on the veranda to enjoy the early evening air. John insisted that they have an early night as Sherlock had had the long walk to the beach and back as well as walking along the shore to see the caves.

Sherlock didn’t complain as violently as usual and John knew that meant he really was tired so he escorted him up to bed and they both got themselves ready and climbed in. Instead of starting their evening separately and gravitating towards each other in their sleep as they had been doing; tonight they started as they definitely meant to go on.

John lay on his back in the middle of the bed and allowed Sherlock to take his time to find a comfortable position with his head resting on John’s shoulder and his arm across his waist. John put his own arms around Sherlock and held him snugly, pressing a soft kiss into his hair.

“Good night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rubbed his thumb over John’s lower chest, enjoying the feel of the small patch of skin which had been revealed as John had stretched his arms around Sherlock. 

“Good night, John.”

Just as John was dropping off, he felt the soft touch of lips against his neck and a whispered breath sighing the words ‘I love you’ against his skin. John’s eyes closed; a happy smile across his face. He was exactly where he wanted to be. He was home.

~*~

Epilogue

Two weeks later and John could tell that Sherlock had just about reached his limit at the enforced restrictions. They had been increasing their walks every day and had even had a little exploration of the caves as well as following the course of both streams to the very edges of the property.

They had also been increasing the amount of time they spent in each other’s arms. John wouldn’t let them go any further than hugging and kissing the first week following that visit to the beach but they had been getting increasingly handsy over the last couple of days and John, himself, had only just pulled back before making rather an embarrassing mess of his pyjamas when he had felt Sherlock sliding his hand over the growing bulge ensconced therein.

John had taken the final dressing off Sherlock’s leg that morning and checked the fractured ribs and broken fingers and declared them match fit. Sherlock had also gained a satisfying amount of weight – nothing to put him over his own limits – but certainly enough to please John’s doctoring instincts of what was or wasn’t healthy. All in all, he had decided that Sherlock had made enough progress that today was the day.

Sherlock sensed John’s satisfaction with all his examinations and his own anticipation was greatly heightened at what he felt might finally be about to happen. He had not been idle during his inaction and had been making avid use of the internet to further his knowledge of all the activities and practises in which they might partake. He had even compiled a mental list of what he wanted to do and what he wanted to have done to him – which seemed to balance itself out quite nicely as he wanted to try everything in any combination.

They had had several intimate discussions while lying entwined together in bed – the latest of which had been the one which almost led to John reaching his climax before they had even lain naked in bed together. Sherlock’s voice describing the things he wanted John to do to him at the same time as he was tracing his hand over John’s body nearly proving his limit. John had expected that Sherlock might have been the one to ‘pop’ first, being new to these sensations so he had been most put out at the almost gleeful expression on Sherlock’s face when he realised the effect he had had.

When Sherlock had told him of his list, John had suggested that they work their way up and start by using their hands on each other before they charged straight in to full blown intercourse which had been Sherlock’s suggestion. John had finally won him over and when he finished his examinations and declared Sherlock ready, he wasn’t surprised when his wrist was grabbed and Sherlock dragged him up to their bedroom without further ado to begin their first proper encounter.

Sherlock had not bothered to put his shirt or trousers back on when John had finished with him so he was already almost bare, only having his boxers still on. He was very keen that John join him in that state so he set about removing John’s clothes.

John smiled at Sherlock’s eagerness but had to admit he wasn’t far off that himself. He started helping undoing his buttons but stopped when Sherlock batted his hands away as their fingers kept getting tangled up in their haste. John lifted his hands clear but on seeing Sherlock so temptingly bare-chested in front of him, he slid his palms across Sherlock’s shoulders instead. He moved them down Sherlock’s arms and then back up his chest, circling his nipples and causing Sherlock to suck in his breath as John pressed on them both, gently squeezing the nubs between his fingertips. The last two buttons on John’s shirts pinged across the room as Sherlock gave up on undoing them and just pulled John’s shirt open so that he could look his fill and reciprocate as quickly as possible.

Sherlock leaned forward and moved his hands around John’s back to pull him in close and kissed him deeply. He wasn’t satisfied to stay in one place for too long though. He was getting so many signals firing in his brain as it sank in that he was finally allowed to have what he wanted that his fingers and lips just roved all over John’s face and neck as he tried to taste it all at once.

“Hey, calm down. I’m not going anywhere. You can have whatever you want but there’s no rush. We have all day.”

“We’ll need all day and many more – we have so many things to get through.”

“Let’s just take it one step at a time. Maybe if we release a bit of dopamine for you, it might allow your brain to relax a bit and you can take your time and enjoy all these new sensations. I don’t want to overload you.”

“Having an orgasm now sounds good, John, but you appear to still be wearing too many clothes for that to happen.”

“Whose fault is that, Mr-I-can’t-wait-long-enough-to-take-your-clothes-off!”

“You unfairly distracted me.”

“How exactly did I do that then?”

“By existing, John. By standing here in front of me, being who you are. By forgiving me for what I’ve done and not leaving me alone to rot. By accepting me for who I am and, in spite of that, still allowing me to have what I want – what I never even knew I wanted until you came along.”

John shook his head. He moved his hands to cup Sherlock’s cheeks and held him still for a moment, looking into Sherlock’s eyes. He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s lips before resting their foreheads together.

“None of those things are a hardship, Sherlock. I will always accept you for who you are, as you have always accepted me and seen more in me than anyone else ever has. You saved me just as much as I saved you when we first met and you have not stopped amazing me ever since. I won’t lie that it wasn’t hard when I thought you were dead but knowing that you did it for me and seeing the suffering that you went through as well means that, of course, I’d forgive you.”

John kissed Sherlock again and grinned. “Well, that took a slightly deeper turn than I was expecting. Shall we leave the sentiment behind for a moment and focus on other things?”

Sherlock gave a rueful shrug. “I’m glad I said it because it’s true, John; I am thankful for you.”

“That goes both ways. I don’t know what I’d be without you either. Well, I do know because I’ve been there and it isn’t anywhere I want to go again so it looks like we’re stuck with each other. John smiled again,” Now, what say you leap up there on the bed while I take the rest of my clothes off without ripping them.”

Sherlock smirked sheepishly then climbed on to the bed, his eyes fastened on John as he revealed the rest of his body. John stood back and held his arms wide, holding himself open for inspection.

“Like what you see?”

“Redundant assumption. You should know by now that I do, and if you haven’t ascertained that much by now then you aren’t half as intelligent as I have always asserted.”

“You know you could just say ‘yes’. That works just as well for me.”

“Obvious. Now, get yourself up here, John, I believe a promise was made for dopamine release.”

“Your wish is my command. Shall I relieve you of these? Delightful as that silk feels, I’m sure what’s underneath will be even better.”

Sherlock raised his hips to allow John to pull off his boxers and made room for John to lie beside him. They lay on their sides facing each other and John slid his hand around Sherlock’s neck and pulled him closer. As he kissed Sherlock, he shuffled his lower body forwards so that they rubbed up against each other. Sherlock’s head fell back and he groaned as he felt the hard press of John’s cock against his own. He pushed his hips up, trying to extend the feeling and John took full advantage to kiss Sherlock’s now exposed neck whilst he rotated his hips again, setting a pleasing rhythm.

John sucked on Sherlock’s ear lobe and ran his teeth gently along the skin, following a line from behind his ear to the crook of his neck before he bit down softly and sucked a deep love bite into Sherlock’s skin. He held Sherlock through his resultant shudder and took great pleasure in watching the skin darkening in colour, delighted that his mark would be there for anyone to see that this gorgeous man was his.

John moved his arm down between their bodies and encircled his hand around both shafts. They both groaned as the added pressure and movement enhanced their pleasure. John wasn’t far off himself and he could see that Sherlock was nearing his peak if his panting breaths were any indication.

“John… I can’t… I feel…”

“Just let it go, Sherlock. I’ve got you.”

John moved his fist faster and swiped his thumb over the heads on each upstroke. That pushed Sherlock over the edge and he cried out John’s name as his body held still for a moment before he was shooting his release all over their stomachs. John held him through it and the blissful expression on Sherlock’s face urged him on to his own climax with a few more strokes.

John rolled over and grabbed the nearest piece of clothing from the floor and wiped their bodies clean. He pulled Sherlock into his arms and held him as he slowly floated back to awareness; Sherlock’s head on his chest and his own leaning down to press a kiss to Sherlock’s soft curls.

They lay there, slipping in and out of a light doze after their exertions until John was nudged awake by a head snuffling against his chest. He could feel soft kisses being pressed into his skin, followed by a tongue tracing a path across his body, tasting as it went. Sherlock was clearly back in analysis mode and John couldn’t be happier to let him have free rein. 

“Well, that respite didn’t last long, did it?”

“How can I lie here when there is skin to be tasted and flesh to be examined, John?”

“I suppose I should be happy that you’ve at least taken the edge off, both for yourself and for me. I can see I’m going to need to keep my stamina up to keep pace with you, aren’t I?”

“Of course. I would expect nothing less. We’re a team, John, and we have new horizons to explore. Onwards and upwards.”

“Oh God. What have I let myself in for?”

John grinned and slid his hand into Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock smiled up at him and moved his mouth to hover over John’s chest. 

“Have at it, you ridiculous, gorgeous man; have at it.”

Sherlock looked at him through his eyelashes and winked as he bent down to taste John’s areola. John let out a deep groan and his grip tightened in Sherlock’s hair as his head fell back and he allowed himself to enjoy everything that was to come; knowing that it was going to be an amazing journey for both of them.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)
> 
> Thanks to A as always.


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